I sing my faux songs
to the stale air:
untrained
unfortunate songs
sung out to the dead
air with yellowed notes,
tangled thoughts,
unkempt words – sad
intimations of warblers
in winter
singing out to the dead
earth their green notes,
hints of springs
wafted by olive wings
through a white land.

You hear the sounds
of my antique songs
and squint your eyes,
furrow your brow:
straining for the hint
of the winter parula
to instruct my waning
dim words.

Silence.

You would not be impressed
were I to fly to heaven
and return with the songs
of seraphim, melodious dragons
singing since creation
exploded in light bursts;
you will not cry
at dead repackaged words.

So I will not try.